Chrysalid
by Garrae
Summary: Who knew boredom could be so interesting? Shameless, plotless, one-shot fluff. All characters belong to ABC and Marlowe.


**Chrysalid**

_Oh hell_.

Her infuriating, annoying, enraging, irritating, pestilent shadow has had an idea. She can see it in every bounce in his seat. Which is far too close. It's not fair. She's got work to do. He's got _no right_ to distract her. Paperwork is frustrating at the best of times, and the only thing to do is go at it till it's defeated. Not that Castle ever helps. Not that he could. Insane theories and stupid stories which bear no relation _at all_ to the cold reality of New York homicides in a wet and sulky November will not be appreciated. Even if Montgomery thinks Castle's his new best buddy.

He's still bouncing. She ignores it, just like she'd ignore a toddler or an overly-friendly large dog. Both of which should be somebody else's problem. She glares at her screen. Sadly, it doesn't respond appropriately. Appropriately, in this case, being by filling in all the paperwork without her fingers ever touching the keys. Now there's a Castle thought. A machine to translate thoughts to 1PP's forms without effort.

_Aarrrghh! _He's sneaking into her brain again. He's not supposed to do that. It's not fair. Just because he's big, good-looking and far too sexy doesn't mean he's allowed to invade her brain. It triggers all sorts of unhelpful reflexes.

"Beckett!"

"What?" she mutters, crossly. "I'm busy." She's been busy with paperwork all day. Her head hurts. Her eyes hurt. Her brain hurts. She's sure her eyebrows hurt, from all the sardonic raising of them that she's done today. Which is also Castle's fault.

"I'm bored."

Is this news? He has the attention span of an ADHD-diagnosed flea. If only his lack of attention span meant he stopped paying attention to her. She has a nasty feeling, whenever she allows it to wriggle into her mind, that if she let him he could pay her prolonged attentions. No. This is a bad thought. Go away, thought. It's almost as obedient as Castle, that is to say, not at all. It squirms around her brain and wiggles down her spine. She growls. She's not sure if that's at the thought or at Castle. Either will do.

"So? Not my problem." _He_ gets to go home if he's bored. She doesn't. She wants to go home and have a glass of wine or two Advil and fall into bed. _To sleep!_ Not for any other reason at all.

"I'm _bored_, Beckett. C'mon. It's quitting time." He's whining. It's pathetic. What is he, three? It's not nearly… oh. It's after six. It is quitting time. How dare he be right, when she's been watching the clock at the corner of her screen for hours hoping that it's quitting time? Not that it matters. She's got nothing planned. He's still talking. Can't he shut up? Surely his tongue won't fall out if he stops exercising it for a single, blessed moment? _Aarrrghh_. Other ways of thinking about how he could be keeping his mouth occupied are _not required_. She hopes she isn't blushing.

"Come for a drink." He looks hopeful. It's not fair. When did he pick up on the fact that she can't say no to puppy dog eyes? She's always liked dogs. Not that she'd admit that in the precinct. Someone might think she was a soft touch. _Aarrrghh_. She will _not _think about touch. Soft or otherwise. She doesn't _like_ Castle. At least, she won't admit it to him even if she did. Which she doesn't. He's probably guessed, anyway. He's far too good at that. She wonders what else he'd be good at. No she _doesn't_. Not at all.

And how come she's trailing out the door after him like some idiot sheep? Must be the brain-scrambling effects of all that paperwork. Her brain's gone woolly. Or emigrated. She stops walking. For some reason, she stumbles.

Oh. Why's she still moving? She didn't tell her feet to keep going. _Aarrrghh!_ She realises what's happened. This is very nice – no! This is absolutely _not allowed_.

"Castle, let go of my hand or I will break your arm."

He turns huge blue eyes on her and pouts in a manner that should only suit cute small children and be totally nauseating on an adult, but somehow is going straight to her lower nerves rather than her vomit reflex, and lets go. She breathes a huge sigh of relief.

"Okay, Beckett. Letting go right now. I'm sorry. I should have known you wouldn't want your hand held." Damn straight, Castle. She should have been watching his face instead of the street. That way she might have had some warning.

"_What the hell are you doing?_" she screeches. She'd meant him to _let go_, not put his arm round her and cuddle her in and this is so far past _not allowed _that she's lost the power of speech and thought.

"Well, you didn't want your hand held anymore, so I thought that this would be nicer." Her mouth opens and shuts faster than the holding cell doors on New Year's. Somehow it's not producing any noise. "Don't you think this is much nicer, Beckett? Far more friendly."

She flaps her jaw wordlessly some more. The arm around her tightens. It's just at the right angle – hang on, _what?_ No no no. It shouldn't be there at all. And then it isn't. Which is a huge disappoint- relief. _Relief._

"We're here," Castle says happily. She looks at an iron staircase down to a dingy door. The sign above it is not encouraging. She's being walked down it before she's had a chance to think better of it.

"The Old Haunt? If this is another one of your insane theories and you're trying to recreate Ghostbusters I am _not _playing."

"I ain't afraid of no ghosts," Castle says, smirking. "But don't worry, Beckett, there are no angry ghosts here. If there are, though, I'll protect you."

He'll what? She doesn't need protected. She's got a gun and she's not afraid to use it. She says so.

"Can't shoot ghosts, Beckett. The bullet goes right through the ectoplasm. You need to exorcise them. Fortunately, I know the formula. Research." She shakes her head. How did she get into this stupid discussion anyway? More to the immediate point, how is she currently sitting in a small, dark booth at the back of the bar with Castle's arm back around her shoulders and her head – which still hurts but a lot less: that's weird, normally it just gets worse and worse – on his shoulder? It's got to be a dream. She's gone home and taken her Advil and gone to sleep and this whole situation is a dream. If it's a dream she can just stay like this. It's a nice dream. She wouldn't want it to be real, but it's a nice dream.

The sharp click of a glass in front of her flings her out her misconception. She sits bolt upright and can't hide the shock.

"What are you _doing_?"

"Buying you a drink? Like I said I would. White wine spritzer. You always have that when you've had a paperwork day and you've got a headache." How the hell does he know that? Has he fitted a spy camera to her coat? Or worse, her apartment? _Aarrghhh_. If there's a spy camera in her apartment he'll have spotted that she's addicted to his books – no, she's _not_. Thrillers and murder mysteries. Not only his. It's just that she reads them four times as often as everything else put together. Just because he's a really, really good writer (and she is absolutely definitely _never ever_ going to tell him that because he's quite smug enough for the whole of the Union already) doesn't mean he has any other redeeming qualities at all except for this really comforting snuggly shoulder – _what the hell?_ She takes an oversized gulp of wine and promptly chokes.

"You okay, Beckett?" It takes her a moment to realise that he's pulled her round against him and is patting her back. Her face is tucked right into the space between his shoulder and his neck and his aftershave smells really, really good and it would be _so damn easy_ just to run her tongue over his skin and _aarrrghhh_!

"I have to go home." Castle droops theatrically. "Thank you for the drink." Oh, God, he's had another idea. He's stopped drooping and his gorgeous eyes – _no!_ – are dancing and it's irresistibly sexy and – _No. _ Just – no. She's a mature adult not a hormone-drenched teen. Just because he's the sexiest thing on two legs does not mean anything at all. There are lots of very sexy men around who are just as attractive. She just can't think of any right now.

"I'll walk you home."

"That's very kind of you but it's not necessary. I have a gun." He looks at her absolutely pathetically, as if she's just shot his pet puppy. It's entirely unfair. She cannot resist that look. It should be illegal. It certainly shouldn't work on hard-assed cops. Where would the city be if cops could be suborned simply by big blue eyes and a pathetically appealing look? Crime would run riot.

"Please? I can't leave you to walk all alone. It would really upset me. My mother always taught me" – how to make the perfect Martini? – "that you should escort a lady home from a date."

Date? Date? This is not a _date_. It's a drink with a work colleague. That's not a _date_. If it were she'd have been double-dating Ryan and Espo exclusively for the last five years. Uggh. That's not a good thought. She shudders.

"You're cold. Let me warm you up." Oooh yes. That's nice – _no_! This is not a good idea. This is really, really not a good idea. But it's so very nice and warm with his arm round her again and it's a miserable, chilly November night and it's only a few blocks to her apartment so what can it hurt? It's not like he'll be coming in for coffee. So it's perfectly okay to cuddle in. It's just protection from the weather. Which is not improving. In fact, it's starting to sleet.

Thank heavens her door is right here. But… suddenly it doesn't seem fair to bid Castle farewell when he's all cold and wet and he's walked her home and her headache is gone and it's only polite to invite him in for coffee, and give him a chance to dry off and warm up, right? Nothing more than good manners.

"You want to come up for coffee, dry off a bit, Castle?"

"Sure, thanks." That smile is entirely too knowing and far too sexy. It's not going to be like that at all. She's just being polite, and civilised. Wouldn't want him to catch cold. He'd give it to her just to make her life miserable. And a cold is infectious, not contagious. So she'd be sure to catch it. If colds were contagious she'd be cold-free for the rest of her life.

That's not fair. He's sitting right next to her favourite corner of the couch. Well, too bad. She always sits in that corner. It fits her just perfectly. She's not being moved out of her pet spot just because he's next to it. He couldn't possibly know that he's too close. If she puts his coffee down just a little further away he'll move.

Oh. She'd forgotten that he's that big. He didn't even have to stretch to reach it. That was not the plan. _That_ wasn't the plan either. He's put his arm back around her and he's far too keen on that tonight and it is _not allowed_ and it is _certainly_ not allowed to be gently stroking her shoulder and enticing her to lean into him and she absolutely will not be snuggling up at all.

Oh. She is. She'll just move away a little. Except somehow that isn't happening either. Somehow she's being held just tightly enough that she can't move away. She hates that. She ought to say something. He's got no right to inveigle his way into her apartment and cuddle her in such an enticing manner – what? That is _not_ how she should be thinking. Not at all. She should move. But it's too much effort and he's nice and warm and cosy and this is only being friendly. He'd be upset if she moved away. He'd think he'd offended her. That wouldn't be kind. But he shouldn't be stroking her shoulder. She'll just tell him so.

Hang on a moment. How did _that_ happen? He's really awfully close and looking up (up? Is he really that much bigger than she when they're sitting down?) into his face may have been a really, really stupid thing to do and opening her mouth to speak was definitely the wrong plan because he thinks she's inviting him to kiss her and _no she was not_ but it's a bit late to say that now especially since it's very rude to talk with your mouth full. And she really does _not_ understand how she's sitting in his lap when a second ago she was comfortably in the corner of her couch where she wanted to be.

"What was that?" she says feebly. She hates sounding that uncertain. Castle's looking at her pathetically again.

"Didn't you like it?" He seems utterly miserable that she might be unhappy. "I can do it better, if you didn't." She should have said something. Anything. If she'd simply said something she wouldn't be in this position. She has _no idea_ how her hands are round his neck and holding him in. That's not on the agenda. It wasn't even in _any other business_. Now or any time. Only it – he – feels _so damn good_ and it's been so long and he is _so damn sexy_ and he really, really knows how to use his mouth and _oh_ how did he know that nipping her lip just where she habitually nibbles it turns her to blancmange and when did she start making those little gasping noises because they're just encouraging him and _wait a minute_ why's he stopped kissing her?

"I think you liked that better," Castle's murmuring into her ear and she never liked molasses but that voice would convince her she ought to and this is all completely out of hand and not at all what was supposed to happen and she really ought to stop this now and _ohhhh_ he's found exactly the point under her ear that really, really does it for her and of course he's noticed, when does he ever _not_ notice when she wants him to miss something? She should be disagreeing with him. But it's naughty to tell lies. Cops don't tell lies. She's a good cop. But she doesn't have to agree. She doesn't have to make a single sound – _ohhhh_. That was wholly unnecessary. He really didn't have to do that again. And how come her fingers are at the vee of his shirt? She didn't tell her fingers to undo his button. Buttons. That had nothing to do with her mind at all. She didn't want to be stroking over some rather impressive musculature. Especially not when he's just got back to her mouth and clearly he's finished asking if she likes it. Which is just as well. His ego doesn't need any boosting at all. He really, really does not need to be told that he kisses better than anyone else who's ever kissed her.

She shouldn't have undone his buttons. It's given him all the wrong ideas. This is the wrong thing to do so why does it feel so very, very right? She can't let this happen. How's she going to face him at the precinct when he's currently nibbling his way down her neck and _what happened there_? All her buttons are undone and her shirt's somehow come untucked and she doesn't seem to be sitting up anymore and when _exactly_ did she completely lose control of the evening?

He shouldn't be worrying the fabric of her bra like that. It's quite unnecessarily exciting – _ohhh don't stop _– did she really just say that out loud? Oh shit.

"You liked that. I like it when you like it. Let's do some more things that you like." She's only human. _Angels_ would succumb to the temptation in that voice. It's not her fault she can't resist it. Not her fault at all. It's _also_ not her fault that he's turned that far-too-mobile mouth on to her bra and it's only a physiological reaction that her nipples are hard and she's already wet and _ohhh_ he's nipping and licking and sucking and _ohhh that feels really good_ but how did she get to be naked from the waist up and anyway that's seriously unfair and his shirt is simply in the way and she's not having that. There. That's better. It's gone too. Time for a little payback. Well. He clearly likes the edges of her nails running over that hard covering of muscle. Clearly. She ought to point out that sewing buttons back on to anything, including her dress pants, is not a life skill she wishes to practice. Though if she'd stitched it when she'd noticed it was loose it wouldn't have been quite so easy for it to tear off.

He shouldn't be tearing her clothes, anyway. She should be cross about that. It's just very difficult to preserve any focus at all when he's slipped one hand well south of discretion though it's entirely _not fair_ that it's not far enough and he's still paying considerable and detailed attention to her breasts and _how_ does a man with the attention span of a week-old kitten doped to the eyeballs on catnip find this much patience and _ohhh_ he can just keep doing _that_ to them _yes please_ and she didn't mean to say that out loud either. She can feel his lips quirking into that disgustingly smug smirk. Maybe he's entitled to smirk. She'll forgive it. If he doesn't stop.

He's stopped. She'll arrest him if he doesn't restart. She doesn't care if it's a wholesale abuse of the badge. She's the cop and she gives the orders and she's in charge of any situation and he is _not allowed _to stop and _oh fuck_ his fingers sliding and his mouth still sucking and how did she get naked because she's sure that she didn't do anything at all to make that happen and _please_ his fingers are _wicked_ and they're so _clever _and _fuck_ if she'd known that typing made hands this dextrous on her and in her and _ohhh_ around her she'd have dragged him home behind her weeks ago _oh Christ Castle please please more ohhhhh._

He wasn't naked a minute ago. They weren't in her bed a minute ago. He certainly didn't have his mouth_ there_ a minute ago but he can keep it there for as many minutes as he likes and _that_ is definitely not legal because nothing that filthy could ever be legal and _ohhh_ she should really do the same for him but she's entirely incapable of movement even if he weren't holding her hips still for better access to devour her and if he leaves visible marks on her she will kill him but not until tomorrow _if you stop I will shoot you dead ohhhh fuck please take me there right now._

She likes it when he does what he's told. Oh yes. So it's really, really annoying that having done what he was told once he's not doing it all over again – oh. Ohhhh okay. Ohhhh he's big. Really big. Where's he been hiding _that_? More importantly, where's he about to hide it? She has some suggestions. Doesn't seem like he needs them though _oh my god_ and if he makes the obvious comment she will ensure he never gets to do this again. Until the next time. There will definitely be a next time. _Oh my god_. That wasn't her voice. She's not sure she still has any words. He shouldn't use language like that. _Oh fuck Castle please more please now_. She's begging. She never makes that sort of noise. It's only okay because he's groaning _please Beckett _too and it's all far too good and _ohhh_ when did the world turn white like that?

She shouldn't let him cuddle up like that. She shouldn't feel this good. And she absolutely definitely shouldn't be planning how to ensure that Castle's bored again tomorrow.

But she is.

* * *

_Shameless fluff. No literary merit at all. Hope you liked it - please review!_


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